


Old habits

by AndySkull



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-11 21:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16860664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndySkull/pseuds/AndySkull
Summary: Why do you always show up on my doorstep in need of stitches?





	Old habits

Breaking the silence of the night, the door shuddered with a hard knock. Irene rushed to it.

"Would you like dinner?" Asked a familiar voice from the outside. When she opened the door, Sherlock stumbled inside. She has to support him to prevent him from falling. His clothes were dirty and covered in blood.

"Hurt. Knife. Shoulder. Knee." Sherlock spat with a shaky voice.

With no time to lose, Irene lead him to the bathroom and put him on the bathtub. SHe proceeded to undress him and to examine his wounds. He had a four inches cut on his right shoulder, two lesser wound over his right-side ribs and a five inches wound, heavily bleeding on his thigh, right above his left knee. 

"Why do you always show up on my doorstep in need of stitches?"

"Old habits, I guess." 

Overcoming the initial shock of his still bleeding wound, Irene allowed warm water to flow and clean his wound. “Stay warm.” She commanded, leaving his side on the bathtub to find a stitching kit. Graceful and fast, she began to stitch his wound as he quickly turned pale. 

“Don’t you dare to faint on me.”

“Yes, Ms Adler.” Sherlock mocked.

 

He slowly recovered his senses. Somehow, he had moved from the bathtub to the bed. His head ached as so his body, the room spun around him but he could hear some faint sounds from his surroundings. The summer wind blowing the curtains, the leaves shaking on the branches of the trees, a faint crying, or were it sobs, perhaps? He opened his eyes slowly, even on with his blurry gaze, he saw Irene sitting next to him, tear in her eyes.

“Stop,” he said, his breathing ragged. “Please.”

The woman approached quickly and bent over him, acknowledging his conscious state, she caught his face in her hands and kissed him softly. Sherlock raised a hand to dry the tears from her cheek.

“Why?” he asked frowning.

“For a moment,” she began, releasing a sigh filled with relief. “I couldn’t feel your pulse.” 

He entwined their fingers and dragged her close to kiss her again.

It would be years later, inside his mind palace, his recreation of Jim Moriarty on a straitjacket would know that, if he dies, The Woman would cry. 


End file.
